Blood Ink
by JazzyKat
Summary: Harry keeps having an odd dream that may mean more about his past then he realises.
1. Chapter 1

Cry to Me**  
**_When your baby leaves you all alone __  
__And nobody calls you on the phone_

_Don't you feel like crying?__  
__Don't you feel like crying?__  
__  
_

_Well, here I am, honey__  
__Come on, cry to me_

_-Solomon Burke "Cry to Me"_

_It feels so odd, sitting here and penning this at midday after an eternity of darkness. I write this is hopes this will be purely confidential of what I am to tell you. I can only hope that you take this information and use it accordingly. In your best interest I part with this knowledge and hope that this newfound power will not be abused. Be forward, my children, in your approach and be steady._

* * *

Chapter One**  
**Religion has always dominated the people's lives. How could it not? It gave the people something to believe and hope in. Ranging from worshipping one god, to many gods, all the way to worshipping the very spirit of nature itself, people have always had something that they recklessly devoted themselves to, but why? When these gods obviously only covered up the people's primal instincts, it ruined the holy chorus that the souls and the drumming of the hearts pumping the thick crimson life fluid pounded out. A siren in the dead of night, a warning hanging in the back of people's minds whispering to them, persuading them to let civility go, to become one with the primal creatures they once were.

The call droned on, sometimes unheard, other times ignored, though never muted by the silly perusal of human nature. An elite few realized this call and chose to not fight against it. Sadly, when they tried to spread this one true religion, the others turned away. Turned away and called it blasphemous. Throughout the years, the people who would listen to the call found themselves restless and wild. They listened to the beat and let it alone guide them, confidant it would never destroy its true followers. Spurned by such primal instincts, the people gathered together and rejoiced as the comforting beats fell down upon them as rain, refreshing mind soul and spirit.

One lucky youth was drawn out of the sobbing, heaving crowd and pushed into the temple, its cold marble halls and ebony wood doors effectively blocking everything from the outside world. The youth had bright green eyes and black as night tresses, he was also heavily tanned along with all of the other exotic natives. Up and down the walls of the temple, drawn figures writhed in pleasure, seemingly victims but later turned believers. The symbols and figures shone and sparkled silver and blood red, making the youth wonder if the true origin of the ink was that of the ruby nectar that civilizations waged wars over, killed for, stole for, and desecrated for.

The tribal sounds of heavy thudding drums overlaying one another in a general system swirled through the corridors and wrapped around the youth in a lover's embrace, drawing him forward towards the darkest set of doors that were lined with silver images and bloody splotches that decorated in a grisly, yet erotic manner. The doors swung inwards, revealing a central chamber, all of the images originating from this point. The squirming figures overlapped and covered, all in the same desire to be bathed in the vibrant liquid.

Seated inside were a head priest, the smoky incense floating around his gray head in ringlets, a writer, stripped to the waist and holding a crystal feather, and finally, two heavily inked youths each holding a bowl of black ink. The drum beats forced the youth to the floor and he lay sprawled out in a trance like state. The writer knelt down beside the youth and removed the coarse brown tunic that covered his scrawny body. The writer motioned to the inked boys and they knelt down offering the bowls of the black ink. Into the ink the feather went and the writer pressed the tip into the youth's palm, slowly drawing a glyph.

Before the youth noticed it, the writer had progressed all the way up onto the youth's right shoulder. Faster and faster the drum beats sounded and harder and harder the writer pressed the crystal pen into the youth's unmarked skin, until thin rivers of blood flowed freely and pooled onto the floor, warm and fresh from the vein. Slowly, agonizingly, the youth was covered in ink. Still, the drums demanded the marks be made, so the writer pulled the breeches off of the scrawny youth and continued with the sharpened tip creating valleys in the youth's unscarred skin. From hip to foot, the youth was drawn on and was in pure ecstasy. The ink, having dried, did not smudge as the youth was rolled onto his stomach. The writer carved his name, letter by letter as finally the youth was accepted by the drum beats as a newly born child of the blood.

Suddenly, in Surrey, London, in house number four of Privet Drive, young wizard Harry Potter jerked awake at the end of the most spectacular dream he'd ever had.


	2. Chapter 2

Heart pounding, hair askew, Harry felt the cold sweat break over his body. He could almost still feel the phantom marks of the crystal feather carving out the strange runes in his skin. Absently, Harry got up out of bed, opened his bedroom window in case Hedwig felt compelled to come back inside the house. Harry shuffled down the creaking stairs, careful to avoid the especially loud steps on his way down. He had no fear of running into Dudley, for Dudley was talking some advanced summer courses. Vernon had crowed with pride about his little 'Duddy' taking some advanced classes. "Comes from my side of the family, you see," Vernon would brag, his furry mustache quivering.

Surprisingly, Dudley and Harry had come to terms of peace, after Petunia found some of Harry's diaries and read about the trials that Harry had gone through in his relatively short lifetime. "Good morning, Harry. There's bacon in the fridge if you'd like some, and Dudley made you some toast." Petunia said, looking up from beside the door. "I've got some shopping to do, and Vernon should be with his boss for the next month in America, working on god knows what. Do you need any money for today?"

Truth be told, Harry was looking for an excuse to ask for some money. He wanted to replace his wardrobe, as all he had were school robes and the giant shirts of Dudley's he kept just for the show of he was still the little cowed golden boy, and not the independent young man that he actually was. Something in him was screaming for him to go to the mall today, so Harry answered. "Yes, if you don't mind, Aunt Petunia. I've been meaning to get some more clothes other than school robes."


End file.
